I hesitate at first but, not taking my eyes off her or my hand off the pen, I step slowly in. The inside of the hut is less sinister than I expected. A table, a kettle, a pair of children, boy and girl, sitting on a musty couch, noses to phones.

In fact, the oddest thing in the room is a newspaper, laying open on the table. “Kids These Days,” the headline reads.

The woman bustles around me and clicks on the kettle.

“Tea?” she asks.

I shrug. I look at the children.

“Kids?”

They stay silent.

“Hey, guys, are you okay here?”

The girl makes a noise. “Uh.”

I turn to the old woman. She is looking at the children, a deep sadness in her eyes.

“I used to be terrifying to children,” she mused, mostly to herself. She glares at the kids.

“I am going to eat you!” she screams, shrill and menacing. I step back and grip the pen harder in my pocket. But the little boy only lets out a belch, the girl scratches her ear. The old woman slumps into a chair at the table. She puts her face in her hands.

“They’ve been here for two days,” she moans, “I thought,” she continues, “I thought maybe when their electronics died, they’d do something. But the little girl has a bag full of portable batteries. A whole bag! They just sit there.”

She begins to cry. I never know what to do when someone cries. I feel sympathy welling inside of me. I awkwardly pat her on the shoulder.

“No, no,” I say, “it’s like, it’s like that documentary about how McDonalds genetically modifies all their birds. It shows this video of them all beakless and sad and you just don’t want to eat chicken again for a long time.”

The old woman sobs louder.

“But!” I say quickly, “they have free range birds now. It’s a thing. They are a bit more expensive, but you can find them. That’s what you need, some free-range kids.”

I frown at my own words. My consoling has gone into autopilot.

The old woman looks up at me. “You really think so?”

I smile and nod.

“Well, what am I supposed to do about these ones?” she asks, snot dribbling from her crooked nose.

I look over at the kids. I shrug. I walk to where they sit and snatch both phones from their hands. The effect is immediate. They begin screaming. The hut shakes. The old woman covers her ears. I quickly drop the phones back into their laps.

“Holy crap!”

“You see,” The old woman says, dejectedly, “I’m stuck with them. If they were clever, they could have gotten away. If they were foolish, they’d have been eaten. That is how things are. That is how it is supposed to work. But, this!” she shakes her head, “this is all wrong.”

“The world is changing,” I say, attempting philosophical comfort.

“No, it is not, it is ending.” She takes a deep breath. I stand, unsure of what to do.

Then, she smacks her hand on the table and stands up, straight and tall, “I will die how I was meant to. I will not live in this absurdity any longer.”

Her tears have all dried up. She looks proud and fierce. She walks over to the smoking oven and flings open the door. She turns to me.

“Find some free-range children and eat them,” she smiles, “for me.”

I frown, “I’m not going to do that.”

She sighs, “The world has lost its magic then.” She climbs into the oven.

There is no sound, only more black smoke. I turn around to the children. The girl is looking at me, a smile on her face.

“I got to level seven!” she says, then puts her face back into her phone.

————

Benjamin Davis is a super cool and creative sock puppet who wrote a book: The King of FU. If you need anything, he’ll be able to help you right over there at the checkout counter. Other things about him can be found here: benjamindaviswriter.com